Barring Eliphalet, there was a dress parade that evening,--silks and bombazines and broadcloths, and Miss Crane"s special preserves on the tea-table. Alas, that most of the deserved honors of this world should fall upon barren ground!
The quality which baffled Mr. Hopper, and some other boarders, was simplicity. None save the truly great possess it (but this is not generally known). Mrs. Brice was so natural, that first evening at tea, that all were disappointed. The hero upon the reviewing stand with the halo of the Unknown behind his head is one thing; the lady of Family who sits beside you at a boarding-house and discusses the weather and the journey is quite another. They were prepared to hear Mrs. Brice rail at the dirt of St. Louis and the crudity of the West. They pictured her referring with sighs to her Connections, and bewailing that Stephen could not have finished his course at Harvard.
She did nothing of the sort.
The first shock was so great that Mrs. Abner Reed cried in the privacy of her chamber, and the Widow Crane confessed her disappointment to the confiding ear of her bosom friend, Mrs. Merrill. Not many years later a man named Grant was to be in Springfield, with a carpet bag, despised as a vagabond. A very homely man named Lincoln went to Cincinnati to try a case before the Supreme Court, and was snubbed by a man named Stanton.
When we meet the truly great, several things may happen. In the first place, we begin to believe in their luck, or fate, or whatever we choose to call it, and to curse our own. We begin to respect ourselves the more, and to realize that they are merely clay like us, that we are great men without Opportunity. Sometimes, if we live long enough near the Great, we begin to have misgivings. Then there is hope for us.
Mrs. Brice, with her simple black gowns, quiet manner, and serene face, with her interest in others and none in herself, had a wonderful effect upon the boarders. They were nearly all prepared to be humble. They grew arrogant and pretentious. They asked Mrs. Brice if she knew this and that person of consequence in Boston, with whom they claimed relationship or intimacy. Her answers were amiable and self-contained.
But what shall we say of Stephen Brice? Let us confess at once that it is he who is the hero of this story, and not Eliphalet Hopper. It would be so easy to paint Stephen in shining colors, and to make him a first-cla.s.s prig (the horror of all novelists), that we must begin with the drawbacks. First and worst, it must be confessed that Stephen had at that time what has been called "the Boston manner." This was not Stephen"s fault, but Boston"s. Young Mr. Brice possessed that wonderful power of expressing distance in other terms besides ells and furlongs,--and yet he was simple enough with it all.
Many a furtive stare he drew from the table that evening. There were one or two of discernment present, and they noted that his were the generous features of a marked man,--if he chose to become marked. He inherited his mother"s look; hers was the face of a strong woman, wide of sympathy, broad of experience, showing peace of mind amid troubles--the touch of femininity was there to soften it.
Her son had the air of the college-bred. In these surroundings he escaped arrogance by the wonderful kindliness of his eye, which lighted when his mother spoke to him. But he was not at home at Miss Crane"s table, and he made no attempt to appear at his ease.
This was an unexpected pleasure for Mr. Eliphalet Hopper. Let it not be thought that he was the only one at that table to indulge in a little secret rejoicing. But it was a peculiar satisfaction to him to reflect that these people, who had held up their heads for so many generations, were humbled at last. To be humbled meant, in Mr. Hopper"s philosophy, to lose one"s money. It was thus he gauged the importance of his acquaintances; it was thus he hoped some day to be gauged. And he trusted and believed that the time would come when he could give his fillip to the upper rim of fortune"s wheel, and send it spinning downward.
Mr. Hopper was drinking his tea and silently forming an estimate. He concluded that young Brice was not the type to acquire the money which his father had lost. And he reflected that Stephen must feel as strange in St. Louis as a cod might amongst the cat-fish in the Mississippi.
So the a.s.sistant manager of Carvel & Company resolved to indulge in the pleasure of patronizing the Bostonian.
"Callatin" to go to work?" he asked him, as the boarders walked into the best room.
"Yes," replied Stephen, taken aback. And it may be said here that, if Mr. Hopper underestimated him, certainly he underestimated Mr. Hopper.
"It ain"t easy to get a job this Fall," said Eliphalet, "St. Louis houses have felt the panic."
"I am sorry to hear that."
"What business was you callatin" to grapple with?"
"Law," said Stephen.
"Gosh!" exclaimed Mr. Hopper, "I want to know." In reality he was a bit chagrined, having pictured with some pleasure the Boston aristocrat going from store to store for a situation. "You didn"t come here figurin" on makin" a pile, I guess."
"A what?"
"A pile."
Stephen looked down and over Mr. Hopper attentively. He took in the blocky shoulders and the square head, and he pictured the little eyes at a vanishing-point in lines of a bargain. Then humor blessed humor--came to his rescue. He had entered the race in the West, where all start equal. He had come here, like this man who was succeeding, to make his living. Would he succeed?
Mr. Hopper drew something out of his pocket, eyed Miss Crane, and bit off a corner.
"What office was you going into?" he asked genially. Mr. Brice decided to answer that.
"Judge Whipple"s--unless he has changed his mind." Eliphalet gave him a look more eloquent than words.
"Know the Judge?"
Silent laughter.
"If all the Fourth of Julys we"ve had was piled into one," said Mr.
Hopper, slowly and with conviction, "they wouldn"t be a circ.u.mstance to Silas Whipple when he gets mad. My boss, Colonel Carvel, is the only man in town who"ll stand up to him. I"ve seen "em begin a quarrel in the store and carry it all the way up the street. I callate you won"t stay with him a great while."
CHAPTER IV. BLACK CATTLE
Later that evening Stephen Brice was sitting by the open windows in his mother"s room, looking on the street-lights below.
"Well, my dear," asked the lady, at length, "what do you think of it all?"
"They are kind people," he said.
"Yes, they are kind," she a.s.sented, with a sigh. "But they are not--they are not from among our friends, Stephen."
"I thought that one of our reasons for coming West, mother," answered Stephen.
His mother looked pained.
"Stephen, how can you! We came West in order that you might have more chance for the career to which you are ent.i.tled. Our friends in Boston were more than good."
He left the window and came and stood behind her chair, his hands clasped playfully beneath her chin.
"Have you the exact date about you, mother?"
"What date, Stephen?"
"When I shall leave St. Louis for the United States Senate. And you must not forget that there is a youth limit in our Const.i.tution for senators."
Then the widow smiled,--a little sadly, perhaps. But still a wonderfully sweet smile. And it made her strong face akin to all that was human and helpful.
"I believe that you have the subject of my first speech in that august a.s.sembly. And, by the way, what was it?"
"It was on "The Status of the Emigrant,"" she responded instantly, thereby proving that she was his mother.
"And it touched the Rights of Privacy," he added, laughing, "which do not seem to exist in St. Louis boarding-houses."
"In the eyes of your misguided profession, statesmen and authors and emigrants and other public charges have no Rights of Privacy," said she.
"Mr. Longfellow told me once that they were to name a brand of flour for him, and that he had no redress."
"Have you, too, been up before Miss Crane"s Commission?" he asked, with amused interest.
His mother laughed.
"Yes," she said quietly.